herself by and by, and have at first but a dim idea as to when and
how the change had come about.
Cauchon went away happy and content. Joan had resumed
woman’s dress without protest; also she had been formally warned
against relapsing. He had witnesses to these facts. How could
matters be better?
But suppose she should not relapse?
Why, then she must be forced to do it.
Did Cauchon hint to the English guards that thenceforth if they
chose to make their prisoner’s captivity crueler and bitterer than
ever, no official notice would be taken of it? Perhaps so; since the
guards did begin that policy at once, and no official notice was
taken of it. Yes, from that moment Joan’s life in that dungeon was
made almost unendurable. Do not ask me to enlarge upon it. I will
not do it.
Chapter 22 Joan Gives the Fatal Answer
FRIDAY and Saturday were happy days for No‰l and me. Our
minds were full of our splendid dream of France aroused–France
shaking her mane–France on the march–France at the
gates–Rouen in ashes, and Joan free! Our imagination was on fire;
we were delirious with pride and joy. For we were very young, as I
have said.
We knew nothing about what had been happening in the dungeon
in the yester-afternoon. We supposed that as Joan had abjured and
been taken back into the forgiving bosom of the Church, she was
being gently used now, and her captivity made as pleasant and
comfortable for her as the circumstances would allow. So, in high
contentment, we planned out our share in the great rescue, and
fought our part of the fight over and over again during those two
happy days–as happy days as ever I have known.
Sunday morning came. I was awake, enjoying the balmy, lazy
weather, and thinking. Thinking of the rescue–what else? I had no
other thought now. I was absorbed in that, drunk with the
happiness of it.
I heard a voice shouting far down the street, and soon it came
nearer, and I caught the words:
“Joan of Arc has relapsed! The witch’s time has come!”
It stopped my heart, it turned my blood to ice. That was more than
sixty years ago, but that triumphant note rings as clear in my
memory to-day as it rang in my ear that long-vanished summer
morning. We are so strangely made; the memories that could make
us happy pass away; it is the memories that break our hearts that
abide.
Soon other voices took up that cry–tens, scores, hundreds of
voices; all the world seemed filled with the brutal joy of it. And
there were other clamors–the clatter of rushing feet, merry
congratulations, bursts of coarse laughter, the rolling of drums, the
boom and crash of distant bands profaning the sacred day with the
music of victory and thanksgiving.
About the middle of the afternoon came a summons for Manchon
and me to go to Joan’s dungeon–a summons from Cauchon. But by
that time distrust had already taken possession of the English and
their soldiery again, and all Rouen was in an angry and threatening
mood. We could see plenty of evidences of this from our own
windows–fist-shaking, black looks, tumultuous tides of furious
men billowing by along the street.
And we learned that up at the castle things were going very badly,
indeed; that there was a great mob gathered there who considered
the relapse a lie and a priestly trick, and among them many
half-drunk English soldiers. Moreover, these people had gone
beyond words. They had laid hands upon a number of churchmen
who were trying to enter the castle, and it had been difficult work
to rescue them and save their lives.
And so Manchon refused to go. He said he would not go a step
without a safeguard from Warwick. So next morning Warwick sent
an escort of soldiers, and then we went. Matters had not grown
peacefuler meantime, but worse. The soldiers protected us from
bodily damage, but as we passed through the great mob at the
castle we were assailed with insults and shameful epithets. I bore it
well enough, though, and said to myself, with secret satisfaction,